Teach Me to Fight
by Halcyon Opticks
Summary: As whispers are leaving the west about a growing shadow, and all races are feeling the threat of unrest. A girl has a mysterious identity, stolen from her long ago: she is a Maiar, a spirit of fire, sent to Middle Earth, under the watchful eyes of the Elven lords. She travels to Mirkwood to train under the woodland elves and the King of Mirkwood, ever contemplating her purpose.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: **

**Hey everybody! First off, thanks for clicking on this story. This is my first work of fan fiction and I'm incredibly excited for the adventures that writing will offer. I'm a huge literature geek (hey, literature nerdiness is the new cool!) and love the concept behind Tolkien's mythology. That being said, I hope you'll recognize some of his themes within this tale. Now a little about the story:**

****The following takes place before The Hobbit, just as whispers are leaving the west about a growing shadow, and all races are feeling the threat of unrest. A girl with no knowledge of warfare has a mysterious identity, stolen from her long ago: she is a Maiar, a spirit of fire. She is sent to Middle Earth, under the watchful eyes of the Elven lords who have convened in Imladris to discuss the threat of the Necromancer. This woman is fated to arise from frailty into a valued warrior and advisor, if she can overcome her human traumas. She travels to Mirkwood to train under the woodland elves and the King of Mirkwood, ever contemplating her purpose in the battle against the dark forces. ****

**It'll start out slow, but I promise as soon as character development gets up in here it should speed up. Hope you guys enjoy! I'll put a song recommendation on every chapter—I've seen over author's do this and I've found out about a ton of great music this way. So why not put myself out there? Leave any comments, recommendations, constructive criticism in the reviews—thanks again for reading.**

**-Hal**

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><p><em>Adeline-Sarah Jaffe<em>

Chapter 1: Under a Metallic Sky

The drums of my ears throb. A distracting sound absorbs some of the attention I dedicated to staring at the small bumps of plaster covered by honey-colored paint in my bedroom. Despite the intrusive sound, I train my eyes on the wall, tilting my head sideways in concentration. If someone were to enter the room, they would probably pass of my blank stare as the result of deep thought. And they couldn't be more wrong. At this point in my life, I'm trying to do anything _but_ think. Minutes pass; my eyes cross and glaze over as the chatter diminishes and my head becomes a much bigger place—a blank slate.

The noise funnels into my thoughts, again. While the vibrations sound like they have been filtered through honey and I don't have the strength to concentrate on the disruptive humming noise. Somewhere in the back on my mind, I know someone is calling my name, but I have become so comfortable in the gray-matter confines of my mind, reacting to noises and touch is often like pulling myself away from an inviting afternoon nap: difficult and unwanted. Instead, I swim further into the depths of my mind, kept company by increasingly blank thoughts. I've been catatonic for five months, two weeks, and two days, and succumbing to the lead-weighted feelings in my limbs was the easiest thing that has ever happened in my life.

"Adeline." The sound finally breaks through my barriers.

My eyes flick to the mahogany bookshelf next to the honey-colored expanse of wall. One-hundred sixty-two books, five shelves, sorted alphabetically by author and title.

The hum pulses against my ears again. My eyes snap shut, crusted and dry as I squeeze the lids together. I need just a little more time to rest. Just dressing myself has exhausted my body and mind.

"Adeline," my sister calls—louder this time, opening my closet to pull out a pair of brown leather Oxfords and a sweater. She walks over to where I sit on a pressed quilt with a pin-straight back and my head tilted sideways. I summon the strength to look at her face, focusing my eyes on the pores of her nearly flawless skin and scanning the swell of her cheekbone, but never meeting her eyes.

"It's time to visit Dan, alright?"

I nod, feeling the stiffness in my neck and shoulders; it must have been hours since I last moved. Slowly, I inflate my chest—two, three, four—and release my diaphragm with a practiced exhale.

Ray squats by my bed to put my shoes on and I continue staring, feeling the familiar weight of exhaustion in the tendons of my throat. My therapy session with Dan already looks bleak, at best. I look away from the wall when Ray moves to pull the sweater over my head and smooth my skirt under her sea foam-blue nails.

She pops up off the floor with an energetic spin and dances out my room, swishing her red hair in the process. I note the unique confidence emanating from the _clack_ of her lightly stacked flats. Ten minutes later, we zoom past telephone lines, clay stained rivers, and sod fields.

"It's a shame really," Ray's voice swims through the seemingly hard air in my head. "I wish they didn't start construction here. It was a beautiful river, yeah?" I recognize this as another prompt, something she would ask and expect me to answer with a quote. It was a game we played when we were young, but I suspect she kept asking so I would talk more often.

"The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater," I quote, maintaining an even stare out the window.

Abruptly, I feel my neck jerk, the vertebrae sliding against each other in an abrasive subluxation. People always re-account car accidents like they can remember every detail; all I can remember is the sound. I imagine myself recreating the scene, standing in the mud-stained turbulence of the nearby river with my eyes closed, conducting the metal with measured waves of my arms, like a symphony of steel twisting, turning, collapsing in on itself in slow motion.

I don't close my eyes when the car melds around us; I watch Ray's sea foam-nails grip my jumper and shield her face, her red hair suspended in the air as the car tumbles over off the side of the bank. I feel something heavy sit on my inflated chest; the metal around me turns to grit and envelops the mind whose body is turning, swelling, shrinking into itself.

At that moment I unearthed a sense of clarity I haven't uncovered since I saw my uncle take a gun to his head and pull the trigger: I realize how sick and feverish my mind had become. The metal cabin above my head slowly discolors into chips of greens and blues from an ancient forest; I had been unknowingly uprooted, and all I could do was stare at the canopy as the silvery shards of metal swelled into the sharp corners of leafs in a dappled sky.

I watch as the world around me morphs into something sacred—green, untouched, and smelling distinctly of pungent earth. Small brushes of cool air snake around my ankles and neck, just to turn into the whispers of cool water separating the snarls in my curly hair. I can't rip my eyes away from the sky as I float in the static pond that formed around my body—the water tastes sweet as it leaks past the corners of my lips. Feeling slowly seeps into my limbs and the lead siphons from my pores. I bend my neck to look at my feet, wiggling them around in my Oxfords. I feel a sedating sense of calm.

Unwarranted laughter bubbles out from a hollow place in my chest.

_I've finally lost my sanity_, I think, on the verge of a maniacal breakdown. I inhale quickly and submerge my face underwater. My ears still ring with the sound of colliding metal, subtle proof of the accident that occurred only minutes before the woodland materialized around me.

I break the surface half a minute later, slowly stand, and wring out my skirt and sweater the best I can. Pulling up my knee-high socks I clamber up the bank, only to trip and fall on my chest, my palms pushing into the mud. I freeze, my blood running cold and goose-flesh rising off of my arms—a woman stands in front of me. Her feet are bare, her dress white, and her hair golden. Here I am, my front slicked with mud, when this striking woman doesn't even have mud on the hem of her dress. I blush crimson because I already feel a sort of reverence for this stranger.

"Do not be afraid, my little warrior," she whispers inside my head. "You have traveled along way, and faced many hardships, but you are here now and you will soon find your purpose." She reaches out to me with perfectly white, manicured hands.

I reach out with a dirty hand and, the image of Ray's sea foam-green nails clutching my sweater abruptly flashes through my mind. The car accident comes flooding back with staggering force, and I wonder how I could have ever forgotten it. I watched the symphony replay, staring at the woman's hand and realize that I couldn't have survived the twisting metal. How curious, but undeniably calming; the light at the end of the tunnel is a beautiful woman who speaks in the most comforting and fluid language I've ever heard.


	2. Chapter 2

**'Ello readers****J**

**Yay, a second installment—in all my reading of fan fiction I have always been able to count on awkward introductions in the second chapter. So I ain't going there. MEANWHILE, I already have some views on my story (well, I'm pretty sure three of those are from me logging on from my iPod…). Yeah, big whoop, but I'm a person who doesn't even have a Facebook or Twitter, so people even glancing at something I put on the Internet is a new and exciting thing for me. Time for Adeline to find out what the hell is goin' on…AWW YISS.**

**-Hal**

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><p><em>Between Two Points- The Glitch Mob (feat. Swan)<em>

Chapter 2: Time to Understand the Terror

You know the feeling you get when you fall asleep, but you're aware that you are sleeping and can feel the mattress under you and energy seep back into your body? I feel the same lucidity as I slip into unconsciousness on the bank, while the beautiful woman hums a soft melody—it sounds Celtic in origin, but with a foreign influence I can't place. For hours, I stare at the patterned underside of my eyelids, feeling a small, welling sense of panic, the type of dread you get when you can't find your car keys, or have forgotten to do an important assignment for school. The feverish feeling consumes my mind as I slip into a deeper, more troubled sleep.

In my dreams, I walk through a field of tall grass—nearly up to my knees—but some of the blades are smeared with blood so deeply red it appears black. I inhale sharply to calm myself down, but gag on the coppery smell in the air. Panic wells up inside my chest at the sight and I frantically spin around, looking for something—anything to get me off the ground. All I see is the field. Even the sky seems low and confining, like I'm trapped in a box. I press the palms of my hands against my ears, the panic now fully taking control of my body. My heart races, spurring on the frightening scenarios in my mind.

A strong, unnatural gust of wind blasts over the field and whips my skirt, hair, and the soiled grass out behind me. It would feel refreshing if strands of blood didn't detach from the blades to splotch on my skin. I turn around again to shield my face, only to see hundreds of bodies massed together—all wearing armor and stepping over fallen fighters.

I feel the strings of lucidity again and wonder why I haven't woken up yet. This has to be a dream. I desperately pinch my forearms, slap my face, tug and rip at my hair in attempt to wake myself up, hearing myself whimper like an animal. Meanwhile, the sound of the nearby battle continues, unrelenting and deafening. I let myself become completely overwhelmed before I shut my brain off, like I had practiced so many times before, and compartmentalized, letting all the sensations flow over my skin and slide off in one fluid movement.

Time passes—I don't know how long—before I open my eyes. I'm covered in filth, curled up on the ground with my hands still pressed over my ears. While I was on the ground, the sound from the battle had vanished, and a supernatural charge hangs in the air.

"Get up."

I jerk around to face the voice, spinning onto my knees in a defensive crouch. A man stands in front of me, but he doesn't wear armor. His chest is bare and sculpted, covered only by a sash of course red fabric. He has long, brown hair and a thick beard and wears a thin black circlet of metal around his head, more like a sign of authority than a crown.

"Who are you?" My voice sounded small and frightened.

He tilted his chin up with a stretch of his neck and looked down at me—he looked massive and intimidating.

"Listen closely, Arien."

I notice a spiked Warhammer in his left hand. Instead of immediately answering, he starts to talk in a slow pace, as if he were talking to a small child.

"In your world, there is a man named Tolkien who wrote about a place called Middle Earth."

My ears started to ring.

"He was like you, and could transcend the barrier between Earth and Arda. As a young solider caught in the First World War of Earth, he found himself in the trenches of a place burdened by the industry of man. As he went mad watching his comrades be killed off—a dozen per minute—he found himself in a peculiar place: the battlefields for the War of the Last Alliance.

My throat tightened painfully.

"He fought bravely, unknowingly saving the life of Elrond, Lord of Rivendell. Only afterward was he told his purpose: Tolkien was sent to Middle Earth to study as a student of Vairë, the Weaver in the Halls of Mandos."

I stare at his face; he was his eyes closed like he's rehearsing a well-known story, but I sense his well-covered impatience.

"He was granted a ring by the Valar—silver with a centered purple ring of amethyst, a stone from Earth—and serves the Valar, helping weave the history of the universe, free to come and go as he pleases. At one point after the second war for the Ring of Power, he found himself back in your world, a young man again in the midst of a war that engulfed the entirety of Earth. It was there that he wrote what Earth considers a mythology: _The Lord of the Rings_."

The title of the beloved story—no, history—rings out with a defiant resolution. I wanted to disbelieve everything the man told me, but I recognized its truth, deep in my gut. But he continued with something even more unfathomable…

"You died, Adeline. You are dead, and you were sent here to live again."

I know any sane person should have shut down, unable to process the outrageous, seemingly-fabricated information. Then why did I feel relieved and somewhat excited to be a blank slate?

"Who are you?" I ask, impressed when my voice comes out evenly and confidently—much like my sister would act. I paused, miserably wondering what happened to her.

"I am the embodiment of Aulë, the Smith of the Valar. I know many things, and have looked upon your fate with the other Aratar, child. You are destined for greatness. I challenge you to find your purpose, Adeline."

He smirks with a premonition that crawls under my skins and persuades me to yell out my frustrations. Being _so goddamn_ _mysterious_ did nothing to ease the feverish feeling in my veins.

"WHO AM I? WHY AM I HERE?" I yell, with surprising rage.

He cocks an eyebrow and I feel like driving my fists into his chest—I have no idea where the rage came from, but it surfaced with surprising force. He pauses, and precedes carefully.

"You were born a Maia, Adeline. A spirit descended to Arda to help the Valar shape the world."

I briefly remember Gandalf was part of the Maiar race, But Aulë gives me no time to ponder the implications. Everything he does seems fast and impatient, even his movements.

"You were sent to Earth because you are a fire spirit. The gods were afraid you would side with Morgoth and become corrupt, like the Balrogs. You were sent to Earth, to learn empathy, and we have brought you back at the turn of an age, to combat the stirring unrest in the East. Now, you must train, and return to your former glory. You must remember yourself, but it is not something anyone can teach you."

I feel the burning rage course through my veins and I drop my skirt, which I was fidgeting with to take a calming breath before I can talk back—something I've never done before. Somehow, I know this man is dangerous and it wouldn't be wise to lose my temper. I squeeze my eyes shut and internalize. All the pain I experienced on Earth: the death of my parents, the trauma from watching my uncle commit suicide, the numbing depression felt from all the bad things that had happened to me…was all planned.

"Why are they fighting?" I enquire weakly, facing the battle to distract myself. No sound comes from the field, even though the battle seems to be climaxing, metaled soldiers and dark orcs seamlessly mixing together. I watch as a single warrior runs up to a nearby hill, darting through the battle faster than I thought possible under the thick armor. In one fluid motion, he slides on his knees and pounds a fist into the ground. Immediately, a ring of wind and fire blasts from the epicenter and knocks down dozens of orcs, his comrades left to fight the open air.

"This is the fate of Middle-Earth. You have powers as well; foster them, learn how to manipulate them, become powerful," the man says, observing the battle at my side. "You will wake soon, with gifts from the gods in the woods of Lothlorien. Train, become strong, and we will meet again. But above all things, remember your empathy Arien; become one with the people and universe around you."

I turn to face him, only to see he has disappeared. Overwhelmed, I sit with my back resting on a rock, watching the battle carry on until the sun sinks below the horizon—everything is still silent. By nightfall, no winner is apparent and I slip into another trance, giving my mind time to process all that I have heard. I died. My childhood fantasies exist, and tomorrow I will be on my own, forging another life. In seventeen years of my existence, I got everything wrong.


End file.
